One fine afternoon, last autumn, as I was walking
leisurely along the turnpike road leading out of one of our large
manufacturing towns in Lancashire, I was overtaken by an old man,
apparently about 70 years of age. With the freedom usually
manifested by country people, he accosted me thus: "It's a foine day,
mestur." I said it was. "Aw think yo'r a stranger abeawt here,
for aw connot recollect seein' yo afore, an' aw've lived i' this
naybourhood summat loike fifty or sixty year." I told him he was
right, for I was a stranger in that part of the country, and asked him
what trade the people followed in that locality. "Why some do one
thing, an' some another, an' plenty do nowt at o, nobbut shankle abeawt wi'
their honds i' their pockets. Th' biggest part on 'em are owd
hondloom wayvers; aw'rn used to be one misel' when aw'rn younger, but
aw've ne'er done noan neaw for this last four or five year'.'' "How do you
manage to get your living, then?" I asked. I saw the tears trickling
down the old man's cheeks, as he replied—"Well, to tell yo th' truth,
mester, aw'm loike mony a one besoide me, at's getten owd, aw have to
depend upo' other foalk." "Is your old woman living?" I inquired.
"Nawe, hoo's been deed just two year' this September. We'rn livin'
wi' a dowter o' mine, at that time, on i'th' cloof, yonder, but sin' hoo
deed aw've bin livin' wi' mi owdest son, Jim, just across th' fielt theer.
Will yo co' a bit an' have a poipe o' bacco wi' me? Eawr Jim's at
his wark i'th' loom-heawse, an' th' childer are at th' schoo'; so if yo'n
slip across wi' me we can have a comfortable chat together. Anxious
to hear a little more of the old man's history, I thanked him for the
invitation, and at once accompanied him to his dwelling. It was an
old stone house, built, if I remember rightly, in the year 1760, and
beautifully situated on a slight eminence, about two hundred yards from
the turnpike road. As we approached the cottage, it appears we were
observed by the old man's son, for he came to meet us at the garden gate,
and holding out his hand to me, said, "Heaw are yo, sir? Aw dunno
know yo, but aw reccon mi feyther does; come in, an' sit yo deawn.
Aw'm expectin' eawr Betty in every minute, an' when hoo comes yo can have
a sope o' tay wi' mi' feyther. Aw never ha' nowt o'th' soart misel',
but aw loike to see other foalk have it, if they loiken it. Win yo
have a poipe o' bacco with us? Yo happen dunno smook?" I told
him I did not, but thanked him all the same.

"What rent may you pay for a house like this" I inquired.
"We ne'er pay nowt, mestur; we wur used to pay thirty shillin' a year, but
th' squire up at th' Ho' said he thowt we'd as mich as we could do, beawt
payin' rent; he'd let us live a bit for nowt;—that's abeawt two year sin'
an' we'n never paid a haupney fro' that day to this." "It is very
kind of your landlord," I observed, "in allowing you to live rent free.
Are any of your neighbours thus favoured?" "Nawe, not as aw know on.
Aw reccon it's becose mi feyther's a bit ov a favourite wi' em. He
used to play th' double bass up at th' chapel yonder, yo seen, an' they'n
loike made a bit more ado on him on that akeawnt. Then there's
another thing—mi mother wer'n th' cook up at th' Ho', afore mi feyther wed
her, an' they'n allis taen to us a bit ever sin."

Just as Jim was concluding the last sentence, his wife came
in, carrying a fine baby of some three months old. She seemed a
little surprised at seeing a stranger in the house; it was some thing
rather unusual, no doubt. She had not advanced many steps before her
husband took the child from her arms, and, giving it a kiss, said to its
mother, "There's a gentleman here, tha' sees, Betty; tha' mun make 'em a
sope o' tay, lass, as soon us t'con; an' when they'n had sum'at t' eat
they can sit an' chat together awhile. Mi feyther can tell yo some
rare tales, mestur, iv he's a moind," he said, addressing himself to me.
I told him I was exceedingly fond of tales, and should like to hear some
good ones.

"Aw'll gie yo a bit of a skit or two," said the old man, when
aw've getten some o'th' woind off mi stomach; for aw'm nowt at talkin'
when aw'm hungry."

In a few minutes the good woman had the tea-things placed on
the table, and, although I had partaken of dinner only about an hour
before, I enjoyed their kind hospitality very much. Tea being over,
I, along with my old friend, repaired to a wooden seat in the garden, the
old man taking his pipe with him. We sat a few moments in silence,
which was at length broken by my friend saying—"Well aw reccon aw shall
ha' to try iv aw can tell yo a tale or two, neaw; an' as eawr Jim's towd
yo at aw used to be a bit ov a music chap, aw'll tell yo one or two bits
o' skits at aw remember very weel. Yo'll think they seawnden
strange, no deawt, but aw can assure yo, they're quite true, an some o' th'
characters mentioned are livin' yet.

"Owd Simeon Carter, a bass singer, had getten his woife's red
cloak on, an' a great woollen shawl lapped reawnd his meawth, so that we
could only just see his nose-end poppin' eawt. Ike-o'-Abram's had
borrowed a top-coat off someb'dy 'at reached reet deawn to his feet; an
he'd a pair o gloves on his honds 'at looked big enough for Daniel
Lambert. Sammy Hallsworth had getten his feyther's breeches on th'
top ov his own, an' his legs looked moor loike elephants legs nor owt
else. Aw can assure yo we wur a bonny lot o together. Well, we
tried th' Kesmus hymn, 'Hark, Hark,' an' toathry o' them things o'er, an'
just as th' church clock struck twelve, we turned eawt. But aw'm
forgettin' to tell yo abeawt Johnny-o'-Neddys, a chap 'at should ha' bin
wi' us. Johnny aw understond, had a rare do wi' th' woife afore he
seet off fro' whoam. Hoo didn't loike him to go a basoon playin',
when he owt to be i' bed, an' wur freetund sum'ut ud happen him iv he went
eawt; an' hoo wur no' fur off reet, for on his way t' th' schoo', he had
to cross a wood, an' i' doin' so, as there wur nob'dy onywheer abeawt he
thowt he met as weel be tryin' a tune or two o'er. Well, he geet owd
ov his basoon, an started a puffin away. As it happened, theer wur a
bull noan fur off 'at yerd this noise 'at Johnny wur makin', an' it began
a tryin' to imitate him as weel as it could.

"Well, neaw then, aw'll go back to mi tale agen. As aw
wur tellin' yo', we started eawt o' singin' at twelve o'clock.
There'n a parcel o' lads gethert reawn th' schoo' dur, an' as soon as ever
they seed us they seet up a great sheawt, an' started a makin' remarks
abeawt us. One on 'em said, 'Eh! look theer at that mon wi' th' long
top-cooat on; he looks loike a clooas-prop dressed up.' An' then
another young rascal sheawted eawt, 'Wheer hast getten thi red cloak fro',
owd mon? What wilt' tak' for a whelp off it?' Sammy Hallsworth,
when he yeard that, began a poikin' off as noicely as he could, for he
knew iv they seed his breeches they'd hardly, ever ha' done makin' remarks
abeawt 'em. Well, we geet o'er this as weel as we could; owd Simeon
grumbled at 'em a bit, an' said iv he could only get owd on 'em he'd poo
their ears till they'rn as long as pig ears.

"Tummy Yetton, a young fellow at purtended to cooart her a
bit neaw an' then, ax'd me what aw'd done that for. He said he'd
punse his foote thro' th' fiddle iv aw didn't keep that clumsy stick to
mysel'. We wur o foin' eawt ov a lump for abeawt five minutes, an'
aw wur freetened we should never be able to muster no moor; but owd Simeon
coom an' stretched hisel' up among us, an' said it wur a shawm 'at we
should be carryin' on i' that'n, an' a lot o' chapel singers as we wur; we
should have o th' folk i' th' place talkin' abeawt us. Inneaw, who
should come creepin' back but Sammy Hallsworth; he'd poo'd one o' th' pair
o' breeches off, an' had 'em slung o'er his shooder. Well, we
managed to get i' summat loike order agen, an' then we went forrard to owd
Pogson's. (Owd Pogson wur th' clark o' th' chapel.) We started
a singin' th' Kesmus hymn, an' geet thro' very weel to th' eend o' th'
fust verse, an, then Skennin' Jonas, as we used to co him, began a thumpin'
at th' dur, an' tryin' to wakken 'em up. When we'd getten to th'
eend o' th' next verse, he gan it another bang wi' th' eend o' his
knob-stick. Owd Pogson geet up and stuck his yead eawt o' th'
window, an' towd us he wur very sorry, but he couldn't ger a leet—th'
matches wur damp, or summat. Aw wur stondin' at th' side o' Skennin'
Jonas at th' toime, an' yeard him mutter summat abeawt him loikin' his ale
to weel hissel' to ger up an' give a poor body a sup. Well, after
we'd bin to two or three moor places, we went to owd Daniel Whitley's, at
th' Hey Barn. When we geet theer it wur abeawt two o'clock i' th'
mornin', noice an' moonleet, but very cowd, for it wur freezin' keenly.
We o stood reawnd th' dur, an' began a-singin'. Tummy-o-Sharps, 'at
wur playin' th clarinett, cock'd up his yead tort chamber window, to see
iv ony on 'em wur gerrin' up—for we'd rapped at th' dur to let 'em know
'at we'd go in iv they'd let us—an' to get a better seet, he walked back a
foote or two. Neaw, reet facin' th' dur, but at th' other side o' th'
fowt, wur a well, where they fot water fro' for th' ceaws, an' for weshin'-up
wi'; but whether Tummy knew abeawt it or not, aw conno say, but at ony
rate in he plopt, reet up to th' chin. By gum! didn't th' owd lad
stare! an' his chin reet wackert agen wi' cowd, for it very nee froze him
stiff. Nancy Greenhalgh—hoo wur his sweetheart, yo noan—when hoo
yeard it wur Tummy 'at had backed into th' well, hoo seet up sich a
skroike as aw ne' er yeard afore sin aw'rn wick. 'For God's sake,
ger him eawt,' hoo said; 'do ger him eawt! We should be wed o' th'
twenty-second o' next month. Th' ring's bowt neaw, an' th' weddin'
dress is very nee made. Jabez,' hoo said, to a great long chap as
wur stondin' laffin', 'thee ger howd on him, theaw great starin' foo'!
What are t' laffin' at? It's nowt to mak' fun abeawt, this isn't.'

"Well, when Simeon had finished his sarmonizin', Ike-o'Abram's
said he thowt we'd better go back to th' schoo' an separate in a
respectable sooart ov a way. So we went, an' when we'd o getten sit
deawn, aw geet up an' gan eawt a short-metre hymn;—an' aw've forgetten
neaw whoa it wur, but som'b'dy struck up wi' a long-metre tune; so, to mak'
it come in, we had to lengthen th' last words o' some o' th' lines; an',
as it happent, th' last word o' one o' th' loines we'rn 'Jacob,' so we
sung it i' this road: Ja-fol-da-diddle-i-do-cob. "Well, mestur," he
said, "what dun yo think abeawt eawr Kesmus singin'?" I said they
had made a bad job of it. "A bad job on it! Aw think we did."

"Aw reccon yo never knew owd Robin Dumplin-yead, as we used
t' co him, did yo, mestur?" I said I did not remember having heard
the name before.

When the old man had finished, I could not help saying,
"Thank you, thank you kindly, my old friend; I am sorry to have to leave
you so soon, but I have an engagement about two miles from here, which I
am obliged to attend to." I wished him good night, exclaiming to
myself—